GREAT PICTURE BOOKS.
You would not suppose that Susan's home could be any different because
such a poor little thing as Daisy had come into it; but bright and
pleasant as it was before, it was a hundred times brighter and
pleasanter now.
The child was so gentle and loving, and so happy and full of life, that
Susan and Peter felt almost like children themselves, in watching her.
No matter how tired Peter was at night, he would frolic an hour with
Daisy, tossing the little thing in the air, lifting her up among the
boughs till she was hidden from sight. And Susan would leave her work
any time to admire Daisy's garden, or to dress the wooden doll that
Peter had made for her.
As for Daisy's self, she was the busiest little soul alive, after she
once learned to walk; for at first she could only lie and look up at the
leaves, and the great sky, so far, far off, and see the slow, white
clouds sail past the tops of the trees, and watch the birds, that hopped
from branch to branch and looked down at her curiously, wondering if she
were any thing good to eat.
Daisy would hold up her little hands, to tell them they'd better not
try, and then the bird would turn it off by singing away as if he had no
such thought, and watch her as he warbled his gay little song, that
said, "O Daisy, I'm having a beautiful time; are you?"
Then Daisy would coo, and laugh, and clap her hands, which was her song,
and which meant, "Yes, indeed; only wait till I can use my feet, and
have a run with you."
Peter made a rough kind of cradle out of willow twigs, and hung it in a
tree, so that the fresh, green leaves shaded it, and kept away the
flies, and fanned Daisy's face, as she lay there swinging, when the day
was warm, like a little hangbird in her nest.
No wonder the child was always fond of birds, when she began so early to
live with them and listen to their songs.
But Daisy learned to walk in time; and then she was constantly flying
about, like the butterflies she loved. For the little girl thought even
more of butterflies than of birds; they seemed to her like beautiful
flowers sailing through the air, and making calls upon the other
flowers, that were fastened down to the earth,--poor things!--as she
used to be before she learned to walk.
She would pick the flowers sometimes, and toss them into the air to see
if they didn't fly, and tell them they were silly things to fall back on
the ground and wilt, when, if they only would not be afraid, they might
float off, with all their wings, and see a little of the world.
Daisy's hands were always full of flowers; and she brought some to the
cabin which Susan had never seen before; for the good woman could not
leave her work long enough to go in such out-of-the-way places as they
chose to blossom in.
Daisy had no work except to amuse herself; and she never tired of
trudging under the trees, crowding her way among the tall weeds by the
river bank, and creeping behind great rocks, or into soft, mossy places
in the heart of the quiet wood; and here she was sure of finding strange
and lovely things.
These were the little girl's books; she had no spelling and history like
yours, but studied the shapes of leaves and clouds, and the sunshine,
and river, and birds.
She did not know all their names, but could tell you where the swallow
lived, and where wild honeysuckles grew, and the humming bird hid her
little eggs, and how many nuts the squirrel was hoarding for winter
time, and how nicely the ant had cleaned her house for spring, and when
the winged seeds on the maple tree would change to broad green leaves,
and the leaves themselves would change to colors as gay as the sunset,
and then all droop and wither, and leave the bright little stars to wink
at her through the naked boughs.
The birds all knew Daisy, and were not afraid of her; they would bring
their young ones about the door, that she might feed them with crumbs
and seeds. And even the sly little rabbits, that started if a leaf fell,
came quietly and nibbled grass from Daisy's hands, and let her stroke
their long, soft ears.
You may wonder that Susan was not afraid the snakes and wolves would
devour her little girl; but, as I told you before, she never could help
thinking that the old woman was somewhere in the wood, and remembering
how she had smiled at looking into the baby's face, thought she would
not let Daisy come to any harm.
And she was right; for the fairy only lifted her finger when the little
girl passed, and the wolf that had begun to watch and growl at her would
crouch back in his den, and fall asleep.
But he would not have frightened Daisy, had he come forth; she did not
know the name of fear, and, glad to see a new play-fellow, would perhaps
have climbed on his back, and, patting his mouth so gently with her
little hand that he forgot to growl, would have told him now he might
gallop along, and take her home to her mother.